


Thank you, Neil!

by thecookiemomma



Category: NCIS
Genre: Challenge Response, Community: nfacommunity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:53:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecookiemomma/pseuds/thecookiemomma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Diamond Challenge on NFA.  Why won't Gibbs let Tony sing in interrogation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank you, Neil!

“No, really. His mother's name was Caroline, and his name is Neil. 'Hands . . . touching hands . . .'” Tony's impromptu bursting into song was cut short by the sharp smack to the back of his head.

 

“I'd rather you be working as hard as Diamond, not singing him, DiNozzo.” Gibbs groused, and Tony grinned.

 

“Good one, Boss.” That was the last joke he made until the end of the day. As he left the bullpen, he caught the flash of amusement from his boss' face at something the other two had said, and the comment came back, and he found himself singing “Sweet Caroline” all the way home.

 

He came back into the building the next morning, and Gibbs crooked a finger at him. “Our guy isn't talking. Startled, but didn't say a damn thing. Thinkin' you need to sing to him.”

 

Tony grinned, the expression starting feral and turning giddy. “Really, Boss? You'll let me sing to a perp? You haven't let me sing to a dirtbag for weeks!”

 

He was watching Gibbs' face as he spoke, and something uncomfortable crossed it. Gibbs' only response was a grunt and a slap to the back of the head. Privately, Tony thought about cavemen and something stirred inside him. Ruthlessly, he pushed it back down, reminding himself that he was free to sing to this guy. Not in the 'seduce and draw in' way, but in the 'annoy the ever-living hell out of him' way. He grinned widely again, and strode to the interrogation room, singing arpeggios as he went. “La, la, la la, . . .”

 

He heard a sigh of annoyance behind him, and brushed it off. He stepped into the room. “So, Neil. Neeeeil. Wow. You kind of got the short end of the stick. I mean. Neil Gold. Did you get sung to _all_ the time? Or just for part of elementary school?” Tony could tell it was working. Gold was tired, and his approach was just the right one for this moment. “And when they found out your mom's name. Wow. I bet you didn't let anyone see where she'd signed the forms. Did your dad sing to _her_? I know _I_ would have. I'd have sung to her every day. Every single day. Oh. Wait. Your mom raised you alone. Wow. Tough cookie.”

 

“Don't talk about my mom,” Neil spoke up, face contorting in annoyed rage. 

 

“Okay. No talking about Momma Gold. If I can't talk about her, can I sing? I mean, I was just telling the Boss here that I haven't gotten to sing for _weeks._ Wasn't I, Boss?” 

 

Gibbs was off in the corner, doing the staring thing, like usual, and he grunted his agreement. 

 

“See? That's a yes. If it was a no, it'd be louder and followed with some actual words. Kind of like the EBS Test pattern. Oh, you're too young for that.” 

 

“DiNozzo.” Gibbs' growl was just on time. They worked _so_ well together. He grinned, nodded, and refocused his attention on Gold.” 

 

“Right, Boss.” He cleared his throat. “But what you're _not_ too young for is this. . . 'Where it began . . . I can't begin to knowin' . . . but then I know it's growin' strong . . .” He kept singing, and Gold started growling. He stood as he got to the chorus, posing like Pavarotti, and singing loudly. Finally, Gold snapped. 

 

“That's why I did it, you asshole! He'd been the one to start that shit. Fourth grade. He sat behind me, singing the songs, poking me in the back with his pencil, and bugging the shit out of me. So, when I saw him now, and he hadn't changed . . .” 

 

He paused, realizing he'd probably crossed the line. “I hate that fucking song. Every guy that wanted to get in my mom's pants knew she liked that song, and they'd sing it to her. She'd melt, and then . . .” 

 

Tony had to empathize. He knew there were a couple things that drew his own single parent, and the predators realized that very early on. Lilac scented perfume, a certain type of wine, and a few other small things, and the Real Tony DiNozzo was putty in a woman's hands. He'd seen it too much not to understand, but . . .

 

“That doesn't excuse your actions, Neil. I understand. You'll never know how much I understand. But I've never murdered anybody because of it.” Tony stood up, made a show of taking the time to gather all his things, and sighed, turning toward the Boss. “You take care of the rest of this. I can't . . . deal with him anymore.” He winked as he stepped out, just for his Boss to see. 

 

He pondered the uncomfortable look that crossed Gibbs' face again as he returned to his desk to write out his report. 

 

* * *

 

He was sitting on his couch, drinking wine and considering that look when he heard a knock at the door. He pushed the pause on his Neil album, and stood up, glass in hand, to look through the lens in his door. As he expected, it was his Boss. “Come in, Boss.” 

 

“Not your Boss right now.” Gibbs sounded uncertain, and Tony lifted his brows, intrigued. 

 

“So, Gibbs? Or would you rather I called you _Jethro_?” 

 

“'S my name,” Gibbs muttered, stepping into the apartment, hands stuffed into his pockets. 

 

“So, not a case. Come in and sit down. I could make coffee, if it'd make things easier, or I can share my red. I've got some left. I've been sipping at this so long, it probably needs a second body to help finish it.” He held up his glass, and Gibbs looked at it. 

 

“Whatever's fine.” Tony blinked at the easy agreement. 

 

“Wow. _Really_ not a case. Have a seat.” He stepped over to the fridge and poured Gibbs a glass of the wine, then walked back to hand it to him, sitting down in his chair again. 

 

“Figured I'd better talk to you, before . . .” The other man's reticent nature caught up to him, and Tony had to stifle the urge to sigh at him. His heart flipped a little, and he felt like he was thirteen again. Especially after listening to Gold and his comments earlier in the day. 

 

“Why don't you like me to sing, Gibbs?” He decided to ask. “A lot of the time, it unnerves the dirtbags. They're not sure what to do with a singing cop.” He'd sung in interrogations plenty of times at the PDs. 

 

“Cause.” That wasn't an answer, and Tony just sat back, lifted his brows and watched, waiting for Gibbs to formulate a real response. It took a couple of uncomfortable moments, but finally, he started to speak. “I can't sing for shit. But I like listening to music. Shan used to sing to me all the time. Used to joke that it soothed the savage beast.” He smiled a bittersweet smile, the memories of his lost wife clearly crossing his mind. Tony sat still, though he'd lowered his eyebrows. “So, kinda like Gold's mom. Except always unexpected. And . . .” 

 

“Music turns you on?” This held promise. A _lot_ of promise. He started singing softly, crooning. “Look at the night, And it don't seem so lonely, we fill it up with only two. And when I hurt, hurtin' runs off my shoulders. How can I hurt when I'm holdin' you. . .” Matching actions to words, he stood up, sat over beside Jethro on the couch, and slid his arm around him. “Warm, touching warm, reaching out, touching me, touching you. . . .” He let his voice trail off. 

 

“You let so much show. I don't think anybody else would have noticed, but I've been paying attention to you for years. At first, it was because I wanted to do my best at the job. Then, over time, it was because I didn't want to disappoint you. Then, somewhere along the way, cliché as it sounds, . . . I wanted this. Wanted to sit beside you on the couch, and sing to you, kiss you, and tell you how I felt with music.” He thought for a long moment. “It's not his, but he covered it pretty well . . .” 

 

“First the tide rushes in . . . plants a kiss on the shore . . .” He kept singing for a few moments, nearing closer and closer to Jethro's face, giving him plenty of time to push him away or protest. When Jethro didn't object at all, Tony pressed his lips against the other man's, lightly kissing him. At least to start. Jethro slid his arms around him, pulled him closer, and deepened the kiss. Relief and joy surged through him. They remained there kissing and touching until Jethro pulled away with a sigh. 

 

“Got work in the morning.” He pursed his lips in frustration. “Come over after work tomorrow night?” 

 

“Definitely.” Tony could hear the rough husk in both of their voices. Damn, he was glad tomorrow was Friday. He grinned, kissed Jethro a couple more times lightly, held him close, and then walked him to the door. 

 

* * * 

 

“So, they're trying to get into America illegally? Why?” They were discussing their latest case. “They could be terrorists.” 

 

“Not everybody's trying to blow us up, Bish. They might just . . . _'Have a dream they've come to share . . ._ '” 

 

“DiNozzo!” Gibbs barked, but there was a twinkle in his eye that Tony relished. 

 

“Yes, Boss, back to work, Boss.” Damn, this was gonna be a _long_ day. He focused his attention on finding the information they needed. 


End file.
